Becoming Hitler
by Alex Wert
Summary: It's not so much that she hates the house - she does, but it's not so much that as it is that he purchased a house without without so much as mentioning it to her beforehand. But she'll never tell him that she hates it. A story of infidelity. Pam/Other.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Notes: **Some others of you may think that I no longer exist. You should know better than that by now.

Some more of you may think that being that it's me writing it, it is in no way going to be your average fluffy Jam fic. You're right.

Why the title? Where is this going? Patience. Soon all will be made clear.

**Warning**: Tense changes are intentional. I'm sure you'll figure it out quickly. Try to keep up.

* * *

November. Scranton.

It's not so much that she hates the house - she does, but it's not so much that as it is that he purchased a _house _without so much as mentioning it to her beforehand. Of course, she tells him that she loves it because he bought her a _house_, creepy clown painting and all. Not that she does. She hates that creepy clown painting. And the decor inside. And the paint outside. And the fact that Jim is incapable of using the master bedroom for psychological reasons. And the smell.

But she'll never tell him that.

* * *

August 11. New York.

Pam trudged back into her dorm, soggy and soaked from the pouring rain, chilled from the coolish temperature and wetness, and covered to the knees in mud - and she couldn't be happier. She still had the goofy smile on her face, kind of zoned out and barely aware of her surroundings even after driving an hour and a half with poor visibility. Hypothermia could wait.

"Whoa, who smells like drowned rat?" blurted Kay, ever so tactfully with her slightly Irish and probably fake brogue. Pam barely noticed her, just wandering down the hall leaving a trail of puddles. She brushed past her when she realized that something was different with her. "Hold up, little miss RA. What's that on your hand?" She reached out and grabbed her hand, bringing it up to her face. "Hello there... shiny."

"Oh my God, Pam!" screamed Cindy. "Pam, you got engaged!"

Pam shook her head, self-consciously. "Yes. I did." She relived the moment of Jim's proposal for what had to be the 200th time since it happened and just swooned while the entire floor (minus the Chinese guy who didn't talk) came pouring out of their rooms and into the hallway to gawk. The girls all squealed, the boys mostly just came out to see what the commotion was about, found out it was about girly stuff, and left.

"You - you look like a drowned rat," said Alex, simply, as the crowd was dispersing.

"Apparently I smell like one too," replied Pam, a little overwhelmed by the attention that everyone had been giving her. Maybe if her mental faculties were as intact as they normally were, she wouldn't have been so spacey.

Alex gave her a grin. "Just a little bit." He held out a towel to her, which she eagerly accepted and began the long process of drying off. "So," he said, uncertainly. "Engaged, huh?"

"Yep," Pam grinned in return as she wringed out her dripping hair.

"Anyone I know?"

"My boyfriend back in Scranton. Or fiancé," she practically squeaked. Wow. Engaged. (About time.) Her wonderful fiancé, who is thoughtful and funny. Who is in Pennsylvania. With an ulcer.

Alex smirked. "Was he the one who showed- who visited you earlier this summer?" Pam nodded in the affirmative. "Yeah, we all heard that. It's - These rooms don't have all that great of soundproofing."

Not even that revelation could bring Pam down. "Bet you all enjoyed that, didn't you?" Winking, she was expecting some sort of joking from him when she noticed his deep frown. "What's wrong?"

He over-exaggerated his sulking even more. "Now I'll never be able to win your heart," he emoted in Shatner-esque 'acting'. "And make you my bride," he sobbed, sulking mightily.

She shoved him when she gave the towel back. "Oh, shut up! I'm sure you'll score another octogenarian in no time."

"Sweet. Dr. Cyphers is totally a GILF."

* * *

End Notes: There actually is a Dr. Cyphers in the art department of the Pratt Institute. I don't know how old she is or if she indeed is a GILF.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Notes: **Two timeframes slowly converge.

* * *

November. Scranton.

"Jim, I hate the house," Pam says, her voice full of pent up irritation, strong and angry. "It's old and leaky, everything about it is ugly. And worst of all, you spent hundreds of thousands of dollars without consulting me." She surprises herself, says her complaints with strength and conviction that she has so often struggled for, and is a little giddy.

She takes a deep breath and composes herself. "Jim, I hate this house," she says again to her bedroom mirror. The mirror just hangs there, not offering any sort of support or critique. Her bland features stare out at her and she watches her mouth fall into a frown. She really doesn't think she can do this to Jim, as much as he may deserve it because of what he did. "I know you meant well. You thought you had our best interests in mind but I don't think that you knew what our best interests were. I know you tried, which I love about you - but this was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I mean what the fuck were you thinking?! This house is disaster, Jim. Is this what you think I want? Do you think that I'd be impressed with you buying a fucking house without tellimg me? Are you really so stupid that you can't see that?"

Pam sighs and rests her head in her hands. God, what a disaster. And now she's stuck with it. But really, how much can she complain? She knows that he did what he did out of love. What did she do what she did for? No, she is just being selfish, and she would hurt Jim if she said anything about it. So she wouldn't. She would suck it up and just not say anything about anything to Jim and they could be happy. Or he could be happy. In ignorance. Which, if what she'd been told was correct, is bliss.

"Pam? I'm back," yells Jim from downstairs, shocking her out of her sulking. "Where are you?"

"Up here!" Pam yells back at him. She tries to clear her head and, slowly, visions of New York dissipate from her mind, replaced with shag carpeting and tacky figurines.

"Hey. What are you doing up here? Talking to your magic mirror?," Jim says, sneaking up behind her for a kiss. "Trying to find out who's the fairest one of all? Well, I think I know the answer. It's you."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Shut up." What a goof. "What do you have in the bag?"

"Well, when I was grocery shopping I got a little thirsty, so..." he pulls out a twelve pack of Moosehead Light. "It's imported all the way from Canada," brags Jim.

"So exotic," she says, in a way that effectively communicates that that fact is relatively unimpressive.

"This reminds me," says Jim, changing the subject. "I ran into Roy while you were in New York. Late last month. It was right after you were out drinking until the wee hours of the morning, drunky."

This has Pam confused. Did she ever tell Jim about that? Maybe she drunk dialed him or something. Not like she's totally in control while she's drunk or anything. We all know about that from experience. "Oh, how is he?" she asks.

"He shaved," says Jim, like he's shocked that Roy would do such a thing. "He's working at some bodybuilding store or something. Anyway, I told him about how you were having so much fun with your friends and he was like, 'wasn't I your friend at one time' and insinuating that you were going to 'get it on' with some guy in New York. I think he was just messing with me. But I really wanted to go to visit you and to possibly stalk you and or mark my territory." He puts down the beer and grabs her hands, looking her straight into her eyes. "I just wanted to tell you this because I want us to be open. I didnt do it, and I'm glad I didn't do it. It would be foolish and I trust you implicitly. I know you'd never cheat on me and it's just my damned male insecurities that made me worry."

He notices the slow tears falling from Pam's eyes. "Are you alright?"

She nods quickly. "Yeah." She says, "I love you," pulling herself up on her toes to kiss him.

"Great," he replies, disentangling himself from her arms. "I'm going to go throw these in the fridge," he says, indicating the beer, "and get dinner started." He lugs the case back downstairs.

In the mirror, Pam tries to practice confessing but can't.

* * *

September 1. New York.

"So it's exciting to finally be doing the art thing," Pam told the camera crew when they visited her in her dorm room at Pratt. "Last time you guys were here, I was all muddled and out of sorts. But things are going great now. I'm all settled in. Getting the hang of the RA gig. Ummm... I know what the area code here is now." She could tell she was being boring and that none of this would make the cut. She fully understood that her life just wasn't interesting without Michael or Dwight or Jim around. Jim. She fiddled with the ring on her finger. It felt just slightly different than the one she used to wear. Or maybe that was because she had gotten used to not wearing one. Wearing it was nice, though, and made her feel like she used to back before her life got complicated. Familiar. Comfortable. Routine.

"And, ummm... oh! I lost two pounds for the weight loss challenge, so for those of you who did the math, you can subtract two from that, thank you very much. So that's good, even though we lost to Utica." Steve didn't say anything, just focused the camera closer on her. And waited. And she started to feel uncomfortable. "I don't mind. We'll let her win one, right?" Yeah, that satisfied them.

"What - why do you have a camera crew following you around?" asked Alex, immediately after the cameras left for the day. She liked Alex. Mostly because he was the only other blatantly over-ager on her floor.

"Oh, they're filming some sort of documentary about the office I work at."

Alex furrowed his brow. "Why?"

"I... don't know... It's a horribly boring subject matter." Alex sat himself down obtrusively on her 'RA empathy' stool. And smirked. "And don't you go around telling everyone how I'm a reality tv star," Pam warned, "Just because I get professional lighting." He still smirked. "Shut up!" He wasn't funny. Okay, maybe a little.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Notes: **Watch out for those tense changes. They'll get ya.

* * *

November. Scranton.

Pam's been having a hard time sleeping recently. Since she moved into the house. Which she IS excited about, she keeps telling herself. She's lying stiff as a board in bed, and completely awake and her mind is spinning. What should she do? What should she say? She already made her choice, she has to be able to live with it. Even with Jim holding her, it's not enough. Not tonight. Not for the past few weeks.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Jim asks. She likes how he can usually tell her feelings without her having to spell it out for him. She's very glad that he's not perfect at it, though.

Pam sighs and thinks about her answer for a bit. "I keep having nightmares about the clown," she only half-lies.

"Come on, for only a little while longer Beesley, it's not that terrifying."

"Can't sleep. Clown will eat me."

* * *

October 16. New York.

"So... what's the good word, Pam?" asked Alex once she got to ceramics class. Late. Not by much. Just five minutes. Enough to make a spectacle out of herself. That made it two profs who don't much care for her.

She let out a big breath of air as she plunked herself down beside him and Stacey in the back row of the classroom, where the 'cool' kids all sat. Cool being a relative term here, but it was still an exciting novelty for Pam. "Apparently I missed Dwight giving birth to a buttery watermelon," she whispered to Alex.

"Wha- Do I want to know?"

"No. Very much no." Alex pouted theatrically. "Okay. But first you have to know all about Dwight..." she explained, with increasing gusto, miming his glasses, his haircut, his posture, telling about some of the craziness that is necessary to begin to develop some appreciation for the experience that is Dwight Schrute. She must have gotten a bit too involved, or a bit overexcited - which would explain the snort of a laugh that embarrassed her in front of her friends, disrupted the class, got everyone looking at her, and got her prof to scowl at her.

"Smartly done," said Alex.

"MMmmmmrrpph," replied Pam, from under the jacket where she was hiding.

"Come on," Alex prodded. Literally. "You're missing ceramics class."

"Ceramics class is stupid. I'm staying under here." That was by far the most humiliating thing she'd done... in the past three months. Not coming out. Of course, Alex had to go lift up the corner of her jacket/camouflage and make her face reality.

"Hey. Part of being a big girl is that you can't hide during class."

"Are you calling me fat?" Which got her not only her own jacket back, but Alex's and Stacey's piled on top of her. And then a backpack. And a shoe.

* * *

November. Scranton.

Pam is cussing like a sailor. She doesn't usually swear, but she would when there was a reason to, and today there is a reason to. No matter what she tries, no matter what actions logic dictate she should do, no matter what implements she uses, it just isn't working.

"Any luck?" Jim pops his head into the hallway, sandwich in hand. He eyes her, obvious amusement on his face as he chews and sprinkles crumbs on the shag carpeting.

She sighs. "I need a crowbar. I'll be back."

"Pam Beesley the Clown Terminator."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author Notes:** The previous three chapters were appetizer. Here's where the meat begins.

* * *

October 22. New York.

"Clear your calender, Pammo!" said Alex, barging Kramerlike into Pam's room. "We- we're partying tonight."

Pam dug herself out from the stack of books in which she was presently immersed. "I can't," she sighed.

"Why not?" shouted Stacey from over Alex's shoulder. "You're harshing my mellow, man." He was probably high again.

"I need to study," she complained. "Art history is the end of the week and I've barely studied yet. And I haven't touched Foner's assignment at all. I don't have any time anymore since I started working again." Dunder Mifflin: once again kicking her ass. "It's stressing me out."

"Come on," pleaded Alex. "It's Eric's birthday. He's legal now, so we're all taking him out to get hammered. And you - if you're stressed you could use a break like this." She had to admit that the man was making sense. And she didn't really want to do any more reading about the Lascaux Caves and its mold or do tutorials on software that she hated using. "Fine. I'll go," she said. "But you guys owe me."

"Pam Beesley," admonished Stacey. "Such the mendicant."

Pam and Alex looked at each other in confusion. Mendicant? That had nothing to do with anything. "I do not think that word means what you think it means," they both said at the same time. "Jinx!" yelled Alex. Pam was dumbfounded. Literally.

"How-" she tried to ask, but was shushed by Alex's shushing.

"Nuh uh. You can't talk. Now put your books and pens away and um... get yourself all dolled up. We're leaving in two hours." Pam could do nothing but purse her lips and shake her head in amazement as Alex left the room, basking in victory. She picked up her books and started stacking them.

Stacey, still standing in her doorway, said, "Dude, what just happened here?" Poor guy just wasn't going to get an answer from her.

So later that night found Pam, once again constitutionally allowed to talk, joining most of the floor at Sputnik. Eric was wearing Jaegermeister promotional foam antlers. That's what he got for being the birthday boy. Not that he noticed. They had all been buying him drinks for an hour. The guy had remarkably good equilibrium. Much, much better than her own (not that that was worth much).

The crowd was raucous and boisterous - much more lively than what Pam, in her small town uptight background, was ever used to. She held her mojito protectively in front of her, sucking on the straw occasionally to make it look like she was taking part. Really though, she was overwhelmed and just a bit uncomfortable.

"Hey!" yelled Alex over the din of the crowd. "You having fun?" She nodded her head yes. "Really? 'Caushe you don't look like you're enjoying yourself. What are you drinking there?" he slurred his words slightly.

"Mojito," she replied.

"I don't think it's a gay drink. Mo-ji-to..."

She giggled. "The popularity of the Mojito has probably never been higher. Thanks, Family Guy!"

"How many have you, uh, had?"

Pam shrunk into her seat a bit defensively. "Just this one," she said, shyly. She was a total lightweight. She didn't want... well, what happened last time to happen this time. Here. With... these people.

Alex shook his head in what was no doubt disappointment. "Pam, Pam, Pam... Pam Pam Pam. You need to catch up." He waved a server over who shortly returned and handed her a glass of something dirty, which she was pretty sure the bartender called a 'slow, comfortable screw up against a wall'. It tasted a lot like an Alabama Slammer. She liked those. To be honest, she liked any drink that could come with umbrellas or swords with cherries on them. But she didn't want to get drunk. But everyone was staring at her with these disappointed faces, and she succumbed to peer pressure like all the guidance counsellors in school told her not to. She ordered something that came with an umbrella. Screw them. If they were worth listening to, they wouldn't have ended up high school guidance counsellors, would they?

An undetermined amount of time later, Pam's head was spinning and she felt a little bit queasy. But she wasn't on the outside looking in anymore. Everyone was gathered around one of those low tables, squeezed in real tight and laughing and giggling and otherwise acting like retards. It was the most fun she'd had since... had she ever had this much fun? Still, she was getting tired. Maybe it was time to call it a night. "What time is it?" she asked quietly to Alex. He shrugged, so Pam dug around in her purse to find her cell phone, flipped it open clumsily and tried to find the clock. "Holy crap! It's three in the morning. We have class first thing in the morning tomorrow!"

"Pam, don't be a wet blanket," moaned Cindy. "Look, the kitchen is still open!" And yes, amazingly the kitchen was still serving up burgers to the barely thinned crowd. And that's how Pam ended up at a bar until the wee hours of the morning.

Stacey stood up and rang a glass with the fork left over from his supposedly best burger in the universe. "Today we celebrate Eric's 21st. No wait. Yesterday we celebrated Eric's 21st. But since we're all too cheap to buy him any presents, we're going to play a game. In honor of our wonderful RA Pam's embarrassing and hilarious event in ceramics class last week, we're going to go around telling one horribly embarrassing secret and or event from our pasts. And... go."

"Where's the game?" asked Kay.

"After every story, we take a shot. If you won't tell, you take two shots and everyone takes a shot. And... go."

'Shot!' So they got to learn that Kay threw up her first ever Guinness in Ireland and also her second. She had managed to hold down her third before puking her fourth all over her Irish 'boyfriend' thus ending her overseas affair and her experimentation with stouts. 'Shot!' The got to hear how Stacey liked to burn stuff and ended up in juvey for it. 'Shot!' They got to hear what kind of sexual depravity a Catholic high school education gets you from Cindy. Eric really liked that one, but he ended up passed out while sitting up in between Shawn and Kay - before he could make any lecherous comments. While drooling. Then it was Pam's turn.

"Crap," she said.

"Oh, this will be a good one," promised Cindy.

Pam shook her head no. "I don't even know what I'm going to say yet," she protested. She tried in vain to think of something that fulfilled the criteria while being suitably unmortifying. Pity she wasn't a better liar.

Alex grinned like an idiot. "I bet it's dirty," he singsonged.

What popped then into Pam's mind certainly fit the criteria, but no way. No. Way. "You are such a dork!" she yelled, hitting him on the chest but not really that hard. "Shot! Okay, I am not telling that!"

"You can take the girl out of Philly -" started Stacey.

"Scranton!" Pam corrected him, checking her phone again. "And it doesn't matter what you say because I'm not saying it. And I left my cell phone on and I'm wasting my battery." She turned it off and put it away. Good thing she caught that or else she wouldn't be able to use it tomorrow.

"Pfft. Like that counts. Come on, Pam. Spill your guts or you'll have to drink another one."

"No."

"Pam..."

"No..."

"Pam."

"No."

"Pam!"

"No!"

"Pa-am."

"No-o."

"PAM."

"NO."

"pam."

"no."

"You'll have to do another shot."

"Fine! Last year at my office's Christmas party I made out with my now fiancé's then girlfriend in the ladies room of the office."

"OH MY GOD!" was the general sentiment around the table. And rightly so.

"We were both really drunk," Pam defended herself. "And she hates me now. Not because of that. Because of stealing my fiancé. Boyfriend. I'm not gay." God, she hoped that none of them remembered this the next day. With her luck, they would though. Lousy alcohol induced liberalness. You think she would have learned her lesson.

The next morning. Or later that night, as the case may be, Pam and Alex staggered into class. Stacey had elected to stay in bed instead, and Eric was in no condition to make any such choice.

"I didn't say anything embarrassing last night, did I?" Pam asked, full of worry as her brain removed the previous night's fuzz.

"Not that I recall," replied Alex. "We were all pretty wasted. I think you're safe," he added in a whisper.

"Thanks."

They settled in near the back and class got started. Pam tried to learn but she was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on QuarkXPress 7 when the allure of closed eyelids was becoming increasingly tempting. Five minutes later, she was sound asleep, resting her head on Alex's shoulder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author Notes:** Are the rooms at the Pratt Institute really that big? If they were, I was gypped in my university experience. I had a roommate in a room smaller than Pam's. He listened to rave music. I almost punched him out.

* * *

November. Scranton.

"Jim, I was taking out the garbage," Pam says, a little agitated. Or maybe freaked out. "Putting it by the curb for the collectors like I told you to do three hours ago-"

Jim's eyes fly open. "Oh man. Sorry Pam. I meant to do it, but I got... distracted... by-"

"-And Creed was there," Pam shivers. "Creed. On our front lawn. In the bushes."

Jim scratches his head, obviously wondering what was the right thing to say in this situation. "Well, he did tell me that he lived in the area. I just didn't think he'd bother to find the house. Or could figure out how." He snaps his fingers and splays his hands like he has an explanation and Pam just knows - knows - that he's about to pull some crap out of his ass. "Hey, maybe he was just out for a walk, saw you, and decided to say hi."

_And _she was right. "Jim. He was just waiting there. Eating a raw potato. And he called me Katy." She's starting to really not like this neighborhood. It's like all the transients pass through here on their way down the big hole. The mine or the quarry or whatever it is. Whatever it is, it's society's toilet, as far as she can tell.

Jim smirks at an imaginary camera over her shoulder. "Wow. Who knew he could remember something from as far back as three years ago?"

She forces a smile and struggles to bite her tongue.

* * *

October 24. New York.

The clickity clack of keystrokes and mouse clicks reverberated off the spartan walls of Pam's surprisingly spacious dorm room. She and Alex had finally gotten around to working on that Quark project. Or to put it more accurately, Pam had finally gotten around to working on it. Alex had been working on his for about a week now, and he was mostly there for fine tuning and moral support. And heckling. She called him Statler alternating with Waldorf. He called her Fozzie. Instead of a balcony, Alex was sitting against the headboard on her bed with his laptop (appropriately) on his lap, while Pam's stage was her desk, sans limelight and Frank Oz.

Even with the banter, Pam was getting tired. Her eyes had started to get sore and her back was killing her. She had thought that sitting at a computer monitor was her natural posture, but now that there was work that actually included such things as focus and concentration, she painfully realized that all the safety training was right. A bouncy castle sure would have felt good on her back right about then. She couldn't lie down though, because Alex was still in her bed.

"This is making my back hurt," she complained.

"And you're making our ears hurt, _oh ho ho ho ho_," replied Alex, in character and not looking up from his work.

"I'm serious," said Pam, unFozzieing herself.

Alex looked up at her. "Then take a break," he replied innocently.

"Fine. Scooch," she prodded. He didn't get up, but he did move further toward the wall, giving her space on the bed. Pam didn't know what compelled her to get into the bed with him still there, but her mind was far from empty. Instead, hundreds of thoughts were swimming like a particularly unsynchronized synchronized swimming team inside her head. She sighed slightly when she laid down on the bed, uncurling herself and stretching out her body as her head hit the pillow. Her breath hitched and then sped up a bit more than you might expect from lying down. Oddly disturbing. But she ignored that and looked over at what Alex was doing.

"What's that?" she asked incredulously as his artwork came into focus of her dog-worthy eyes. "You're doing Dr. Petersmith and the growing of his mighty beard for your assignment?"

Alex smirked at her. "Yep. Foner's going to get a kick out of it."

Pam returned the smirk. "Yep. Then Foner is going to show it to Petersmith and Petersmith will fail your ass."

Alex looked at her indignantly, full of pride and hubris. "He can't fail my ass. My ass is magnificent."

And just like that Pam realized that she was in bed with another man. Okay, in a completely non-sexual way, she rationalized to herself. Ass or no ass, it was just Alex, Alex the friend, who was working on a Quark assignment (which was looking quite impressive, she had to admit) and totally not making any serious sexual innuendo toward her. He was just being a goof-ball, like normal. There was nothing worth worrying about.

Of course, the only other men she had ever been in a bed with she ended up having sex with.

Pushing that from her mind, she tried to make friendly, _innocent_, conversation. "Hey, thanks for getting me out of the house. I needed that. What's the point of coming to New York if I'm stuck in my dorm room all the time, right?" Alex nodded with smug approval. "And helping me study for art history after I didn't get any sleep since you dragged me out of the house." Reminiscing about that conversation suddenly reminded Pam of something that she was curious about but had forgotten to ask Alex earlier amongst all the commotion of drinking and studying. "Hey, how did you know about jinx?"

Alex looked confused. "Everybody knows about jinx, don't they?"

"No. In fact, when most people see me do that, they think I'm some sort of weirdo."

"Well..."

She hit him. "Oh, shut up. You don't know weirdos until you've worked where I've worked. Like Creed. Oh my God, he's like the most hilariously entertaining decrepit old codger. He only has four toes and this one time, Toby replaced his apple with a potato and he didn't notice. Now that's weird. Not little ol' me."

"Sure you're not," he replied in a patronizing way. "You know, there are certain things you said - and did yesterday morning that may show, or cause some to dispute that claim."

"Zip it, mister," Pam warned. "You do not mention any of that to anyone, understood?" She waited for him to nod in the affirmative before she let her resolve soften. For not the first time she decided that she should hire people to make sure that she doesn't get drunk. "Sorry about falling asleep on you. That couldn't have been comfy for you."

Alex shrugged. "It was mostly okay."

"Mostly?"

"There was drool. Lots of drool."

"Oh, shut up!" she shrieked, slapping him in the chest playfully (and repeatedly). "I do not drool!"

"Odie!" he yelled, which only resulted in her slapping him harder and making death threats.

Pam rolled over on her side so she could pummel him with both fists for that comment. She unleashed a flurry of fury against Alex's shoulders and chest, laughing and calling him a dork until he caught one of her wrists in his hand and, as her assault slowed, she came to rest her other hand against his chest. She was slightly on top of him, resting her body against his, quickly becoming intimately aware of the heat radiating from his body, the feeling of him breathing under her.

A jolt of electricity through her body accompanied Alex wrapping his free arm around her waist, and she felt him pulling her down, down toward him, and she brought her lips to meet his. And the thoughts swimming in her head all drowned.

She had always liked bigger men, men with a decent amount of meat around them. It made her feel warm and safe. Alex was broad shouldered, and a bit squishy around the middle. After they struggled to roll over on the cramped dorm room single and Alex began to rain kisses along her neck, Pam felt the warmth that she had been missing this summer. Alex slid his hands down her body and she reached for the hem of his shirt.

The laptop crashed to the floor, forgotten.

* * *

December. Scranton.

Pam finds Angela eating all alone in the break room. She sits down. "We have a lot in common."

They lock eyes for a moment and understand. "Hussy?" says Angela, quietly, in a completely non-judgemental way - just like she would say 'stapler' or 'file folder' or any other uninteresting noun. Pam doesn't make a reply, but slowly casts her gaze to the floor. She gets her lunch, and they eat separately.


	6. Chapter 6

December. Scranton.

Pam fills in the green for the forest background, applying careful brushstrokes along the edges of the nearest trees with her cracked and freezing fingers. It's hard - damned hard - to paint when you can't feel your fingertips. There's no control, no finesse, no fire. No insulation.

Dammit, this is looking terrible. She'd done better in high school, she's sure of it. But the high school had heat and better lighting and she hadn't just gotten blue paint all over her favorite jacket which would never have happened if it wasn't so friggin' cold in here. And her mind keeps wandering to different things. Angry and distracting things. A few remorseful things. And these things have nothing to do with painting the Central Park Conservatory Garden. Which is why it looks more like the greenhouse shed at Home Depot.

In frustration, she stows the paints away and goes inside the house. Then she goes back into the garage, moves the easel out of the way, opens the door, moves the car in, closes the door, then goes inside the house. Then washes her hands. Shit. And now there's paint inside the car and Jim's going to be upset so she goes back to the garage with some nail polish remover and a roll of paper towels and wipes most of it out of the steering wheel. Some of it is in the cloth. That's not going to come out.

"Hey," says Jim when she stumbles through the living room.

"I'm going upstairs to take a shower and then I'm going to bed," she replies.

He laughs. "It's nine-thirty, Pam."

She barely manages a "meh," before making it to the bathroom and turning on the taps.

* * *

October 31. New York.

Since last Friday she had been very glad that she could immerse herself in assignments and work. The long hours at the grindstone sufficiently prevented her from having to think about what she had done. And why she had done it. And what she was going to do about it. Absolutely it would be better to figure it out now before any more damage was done, but no, Pam was perfectly fine with the idea of never thinking about it again. Better to prevent humiliation that way (as much as possible at least). Of course, her last eight hours of mortification were due to a completely different mistake, but one which was thankfully coming to an end.

Having stepped back onto campus, Pam felt instantly relieved to see so many students wearing Halloween costumes. She had never been more glad to see Batman, four naughty nurses, and Strong Bad in her entire life. And there went the Joker. She wondered if he'd see Batman and they'd get into a fight. It was a really great Joker costume, though the guy wearing it was a little too big to be a perfect double. Wait a minute.

"Alex?" she yelled out with a hint of trepidation. She hadn't really spoken with him at all, not really, since they had sex.

The Joker turned his head to find the source of the sound and spotted her - eventually - in the rapidly dimming twilight. He made his evil way toward Pam and, taking her by surprise, swept her up in his arms. Batman made no attempt to rescue her.

"Pam, I almost didn't recognize you," Alex said excitedly, as he took in her costume. "I was looking for this, um, hot woman and you - all I could find was a short little mustachioed man. _Zig heil_, Führer Beesley." He released her to give a miniature Nazi salute.

"I'm not Hitler. I'm Charlie Chaplin," she complained, doffing her hat and doing the funny walk.

Alex rubbed his chin in deep thought. "Are you sure? Because I had you pegged for Hitler a long time ago."

"_Pfft_. As if," she pouted. "I can't be Hitler. Hitler never even made it to art school. Meanwhile, I'm doing quite well, _thankyouverymuch_, so I don't have any reason to sit in beer halls starting putsches. But what about you? That's a kick-ass costume, Alex. It's like you are Heath Ledger. Except chubbier and more alive," she winced at her own insensitivity.

"Thanks, I think," he sputtered. "The sad part is that I already owned all these clothes."

Pam nodded. "Scary." She just felt weird around him now that they had slept together. She'd barely talked to him at all in the last week out of equal parts of confusion, fear, shame, and yearning. It was the last of those that had troubled her the most. No, not troubled: frightened. She was in love, engaged, devoted to Jim, and absolutely happy except for the seeds of doubt that had been sown in her mind.

"Hey, uh... I have my night class right now, so I gotta run," said Alex, unnecessarily pointing over his shoulder to the buildings behind him. "After my class, if you want, we can go grab dinner. I know a place that makes excellent shoe," he suggested optimistically.

She laughed, but shook her head. "Thanks, but I'm tired and hungry, so I'm just going to head back to my room, eat my leftovers, and go to sleep. But I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?" It wasn't a lie. She was tired and hungry... but last week she would have waited. Pam watched Alex depart for a moment, thinking that he was missing a little bit of swagger in his walk. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

Back in her dorm room, she was finally able to shed the costume that had caused her so much trouble at work, peeling off the stuffy jacket and pants, letting her hair down and changing into comfy sweats. Cold Chinese take out wasn't the absolute greatest thing to eat, but she was hungry and far too lazy to go through the trouble of getting real food. She just wanted to eat, brush her teeth, then curl into bed and not think.

_Knock_, _knock_.

So of course she wouldn't be able to do that. "Come in," she said reluctantly.

Eric opened the door and got a good look at her. "Whoa Pam. Somewhat of a 5 o'clock shadow you got there."

Pam's hand flew to the mustache which she had still neglected to remove. 50/50 says that if Eric hadn't pointed it out to her, she would have showed up to class tomorrow with it still there. "Yeah, yeah, it's left over from my costume."

"Heil Hitler."

"_Dammit, I'm Charlie Chaplin_," she muttered. But she was too tired to bother arguing about it again.

"I have a business proposition for you, Adolf," he said, finding continual amusement in her 'stache. "My pops has a bunch of friends who, independently, are in need of some good graphic design work for their various companies. Websites, logos, event programs, advertising, that sort of thing. And since he's ashamed of me being a poor artist and never contributing anything positive to society, he's giving me a loan to startup my very own graphic design studio. The snag is that I'm not very good at it. So I'm talking to a bunch of my friends to see if they'd want to go halfsies or quartersies with me."

Pam was at that moment very glad that her parents were much more accepting of her desire to be an artist - but also envious of any monetary support. Only after ruefully contemplating her dire financial situation did it occur to her what exactly it was that Eric was proposing. "Huh?" was her ever so eloquent reply.

"When I first saw your stuff, I thought you were bland and untalented - no offense," Eric explained, offensively. "But I've seen your work since then and it's gotten very impressive. And I know you're kicking ass and taking names in your graphic design courses, while I can't make heads or tails out of the software. So that's why I want you on board. What do you say?"

"Well, I'm... I'm flattered," Pam stammered, "but I'm going back to Scranton at the end of the term. I'm getting married and I have my job and family and I can't just move here."

"Newark," Eric corrected, 'sweetening' the deal. "Think about it, Pam. At least this way you don't have to go through any tedious job interviews since you've got favoritism on your side."

Pam was thinking about it. She didn't like her chances of being able to drag Jim up here. But how often do opportunities like this just fall into place? "Who else have you talked to about this?"

"Just you and Alex," he said, and things instantly became a lot more complicated. "I might talk to Kay if you have to leave us for Pennsylvania."

"Um... I'll get back to you on that..." Pam waffled. "When do you need to know?"

"Whenever. I'm pretty lazy. It's not like it's the first thing you should be worrying about. The Jewish Defense League is the first thing you should be worrying about."

Great. Like she didn't need any more to worry about.

* * *

December. Scranton.

"Hey, why didn't you just paint over the clown?"

_Grrrrrrrrr_...


	7. Chapter 7

**Author Notes:** Dialogue from Customer Survey by Lester Lewis, transcribed with painstaking detail by me.

* * *

November 6. New York.

After five hours of talking to Jim over the phone, Pam was glad that she had purchased the world's smallest Bluetooth. Not only did it make the workday fly by (which she drastically needed), but talking to Jim again forced her to reconnect with him in a way that had been sorely missing from her life since she left for New York months ago.

She was startled by a voice calling out, "Pam Beesley." She was mid-sentence with Jim when he came in and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Not that she was going to let him see that.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Not to mention, 'how did you find me here' - but she wasn't going to mention that.

"_Who's that?_" came Jim's tiny voice inside her ear. And it felt to her like the good angel on her shoulder, making his reappearance and grounding her in a long forgotten morality. Of course, the person at the heart of the subject matter and past indiscretions suddenly appearing in the room might have had something to do with that.

"It's Alex," she said, inconspicuously (she hoped).

Alex's brow furrowed in slight confusion. "It's... Pam..." he paused for a bit just inside the door before he recollected his thoughts. "Uh...I came to kidnap you. There's free wine AND cheese at the Chuck Close retrospective. Let's go." And the devil on her other shoulder, the one who'd been there all summer, really wanted to go, too.

Jim once again proved why she never should have invited him into the Finer Things Club and why she should listen to Oscar and Toby more often. "_Ah... that's going to be great. Who's Chuck Close?_"

"Oh, I love Chuck Close and his photorealistic paintings," she said, trying to be as non-weird as possible while carrying on two conversations. "But I have to work."

Alex started to look really nervous and Pam got the feeling that this conversation was going to be about something other than Chuck Close and free food and that's why she found it difficult to meet his eyes. "Uh... hooo... well, actually there's something else I'd like to talk to you about," he admitted. "Can we go somewhere else to talk about it?"

With a hesitation only noticeable if one was looking for it, Pam replied, "Okay." She got ready to turn off her earpiece.

Alex's tone wasn't lost on Jim either. "_That's it. I want to talk to that guy. Put me in his ear_." But she didn't answer him and walked instead in silence to a nearby conference room with Alex.

"Um-" he started, anxiously.

"What's up?"

"I wanna take a big leap and I wanna tell you that I think you should not move back to Scranton."

"Wow." 'Wow' was what she said but 'Not again' was what she was thinking.

"_I'm going to make a bigger leap here. He is into you._" And Pam really had to bite her lip to keep from saying "no shit." She could tell that Jim was finding this _sooo _funny. But it wasn't, and the butterflies in her stomach were telling her so. If it all came out now - like it did during a certain similar conversation two years ago... she didn't know what she was going to do. If she turned off the phone, then Jim would think that there was something going on. But if she didn't turn off the phone, and Alex talked about what she thought he was going to talk about... fuck, that would be so much worse.

"Why did you come to New York in the first place?" he asked her, obviously still irritated that she had turned down Eric's offer. Alex inadvertently left her with an out so innocuous that she could have kissed him if that hadn't been what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

'Focus on work, Beesley', her brain screamed at her. "Because they have a great design program," she said, not letting any of those other emotions reach her face. Which was a challenge. And a half. "And I wanted to see if I was any good at it. And I wanted to work on my art, too."

But of course, Alex wasn't that dim or straightforward. He kept pressing with increased vigor. And it scared her just how much it got to her. "Right. And that's why I think you should stay here. Because- it's- you, you- really you just got here. You know, and you can't do New York in three months. You know, it has everything. It ha- all the opportunity is here. All the whole art scene is in New York. You know, It would be nuts to go back to Scranton without getting to fully experience it." He wasn't talking exclusively about art. At all.

"Jim's in Scranton," she said, hoping to diffuse this - whatever this was.

"I know. But. All I'm saying is, if there's even a teeny tiny part of you that really wants to be an artist, then I think you should stay here, because you don't want to wake up in fifty years and look back and wonder what could have been. And that is the end of my speech. I planned it all. Anyway. I will see you tomorrow."

She could do nothing but mumble the same, "I'll see you tomorrow," back at him as he left. Slowly, she exited the conference room and stumbled out, spying the camera guy's feet as she stared at the floor. She felt like she was going to cry or scream or punch walls or all three. Instead she hurried to the ladies room where the cameras wouldn't follow her. To be alone. To think. When she heard Dwight in her ear, talking about the earpiece, she just turned it off. Then she yanked it out of her ear and threw it against the bathroom mirror. Fuck it.

After all, no one plans a speech about art careers.

* * *

December. Scranton.

Jim comes in from a client meeting in the afternoon and sets this little box on the reception desk in front of her. "What's this?" Pam asks from behind the massive pile of unsigned Michael paperwork.

"I know you're a little frustrated, Pam. I can tell. This wasn't what you had in mind, was it? In retrospect, this whole house thing was kinda stupid. Actually, in forespect it was kinda stupid." Pam nods. Her feelings on the subject are well documented. "So I got you... this gift."

He taps the box and she opens it slowly, her jaw dropping at the sparkly earrings inside. They're very pretty, colorful, and fancy - maybe a little too fancy. She holds one against her ear and tries to imagine what Jim sees right now. Probably a poor mismatch of frumpy girl in frumpy clothes with glitter coming from the side of her head. She can't think of a reason to wear them, Lord knows that occasions for dressing up are impossible to come by in this town, but they are beautiful in a flamboyant kind of way.

"One of my clients is a jewelry store," Jim explains. "Don't worry, we can afford it."

She's not the flamboyant kind. "Is this the same place you got my ring?" she asks, dreaming of costume balls, gala openings, and nights on the town that will never happen.

"No. I got that at a good jewelry store."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author Notes:** Trying to find out more about the Pratt Institute's programs and faculty, I visited their website. For a school that has an entire department devoted to this sort of thing, their website is extremely cumbersome. How ironic.

* * *

November 13. New York.

"Hey, you guys wait out here while I drop this off, then I can go celebrate and you can film me getting drunk off my ass, okay?" Pam instructed the camera crew on the deadline day for her Flash assignment. Finally. This final assignment had been kicking her ass for a week. A whole week! Last time she struggled so mightily with a task... okay, she couldn't remember. It probably had something to do with Michael. _ Gah!_ She was supposed to be the world authority on Michael Scott, for crissakes. Now all that she could coherently think about were motion tweens, bitmap to vector conversions, and Cheetos (which she'd gone through more than she would like to admit).

Either way, various factors had conspired to turn her brain into mush and she was glad that this one at least was over with and she wouldn't have to worry about school anymore.

It was a good thing that she had caught the curriculum change that swapped the software they were using, or else she would have practiced Quark instead of Adobe and she'd be even more screwed. But now, with her completed masterwork(-ish... thing) in hand, she was just a few minutes away from surviving the course. And by that she meant 'not failing', which one week ago had been a very real possibility. She was reluctant to admit that the main reason for that was probably all the partying that she had been doing with the gang. Her body just wasn't used to that sort of punishment (most notably, her poor, poor liver). As she sauntered happily through the hallways, she briefly thought about what they should do to celebrate the successful completion of the assignment from Hell... probably a round of prarie fires. Poor liver.

"Hey Pam!"

"Hey Kay," she replied, waving. "Hey guys," she added, noticing that Kay was standing with Alex and Stacey, blocking half the hallway to gab and thus causing the massive congestion that the traffic in the building was experiencing. "Everyone survive?"

"No," stated Stacey, apathetically. "Doomed. Sucked monkey balls. Getting shitfaced in one hour, fourteen minutes," he explained, counting down the time until it was afternoon and thus appropriate to start drinking.

"Maybe you should have taken a different course," she teased. "I really enjoyed my course on expressive typography in new media. It was informative. Really. Take it. You'll see for yourself."

"Shut up and come drink."

"I'll meet you guys at the dorm," Pam said. "Just wait up a few minutes. I got my appointment with Zimmer and then I'm off to hand in my assignment on my 96% empty CD. If you guys leave without me I'll be super pissed and put Vaseline on all your doorknobs and you'll all be too drunk to remember that I warned you that I was going to put Vaseline on all your doorknobs so when you come back you'll get Vaseline all over yourself and you'll think, 'gee, I should have been nicer to Pam.'"

Kay, Stacey, and Alex stared at her silently in bewilderment. "... Uh... Are you okay?"

Pam rolled her eyes. "Yes. Go. The longer you distract me the longer it is until we can get drunk. Now move."

And Kay and Stacey did indeed move, muttering something about 'authority figure'. But Alex, as was his habit, stayed where Pam was. "Classroom. Come on," he said, instructing her to follow him into a nearby empty room.

The moment she stepped inside the classroom she found herself up against the wall being kissed.

After kissing back for just a brief second, she pushed Alex away, forcefully. "What are you doing?" she asked. She worried that she already knew the answer.

"I know... you said that you didn't want to do this again. But I'm not - you're going to be leaving at the end of the week." He held her arms firmly and Pam noticed an intensity in his eyes that she'd never seen in him before but that she had seen at least once in someone else. "And I'm not going to get another chance to say this."

"Don't make me do this, Alex. Please," she pleaded, hopelessly.

"Listen... I... I know that we've only known each other for a couple of months. But I'm - I've fallen for you, Pam. Hard." He gulped, then gulped again, before exclaiming far too quickly, "PamIloveyou."

No. No, no, no, no. She closed her eyes, tried to pretend that this wasn't happening. Again. That she wasn't destined to meet kind hearted, goofy, tender men who would fall in love with her while her fiancé wasn't fulfilling his end of the relationship duties.

"Alex, this is a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. Yes, it was fun and I do like you. A lot. But I'm with Jim and I'm going home in a week. Nothing is going to change that. And this is ruining our friendship and I hate that."

"It's not a mistake. We..." Alex was struggling with his words and she felt for him. And she felt for herself because most women don't even have to go through this even once. "Stay here in New York, Pam. You have friends here. They're all expecting you to come around eventually. You have a diploma. You, there's nothing stopping you now."

She shook her head 'no'. "Alex, I'm engaged. I have a job in Scranton. Other friends and family there. I can't uproot my life and move here. I can't leave Jim. Maybe we'll move later on - I mean, there's no reason why we can't. We haven't bought a house or anything. But I can't be with you. I can't have you around me. Not like this."

"You're not going to be happy there, Pam," he stated, but she wouldn't acknowledge the nagging suspicion that he might be correct. "Here. This is the life you wanted. It's not in Scranton. It's here. What I said last week. Did you have a chance to think about it?"

"I did, and I want my home and my family and my dysfunctional coworkers and I want my fiancé."

"Do you really? Or are you saying that because you're scared?" Her silence seemed to be answer enough for him. "I would be too. It's terrifying to take risks... to choose chance when you have the safe option that feels so comfortable."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she bluffed.

He would have none of it. "Yes you do. And so do I. Which is the only reason why I'm here. Talking to you about this right now."

"You don't know me as well as you think you do. Leave me alone!" she yelled, shoving him as hard as she could out of the way.

God, how could she have been so foolish? This whole thing had turned into a giant clusterfuck and it was her fault and she didn't know what to do, or even where to begin. Everything was ruined. And then there was Jim. How could she possibly make this up to him or even talk to him again?

Rushing to escape from Alex and any other of his revelations, needing to remove herself from affairs of the heart, she stupidly actually went to her advisor meeting. Her logic had told her that this would be a good way to get her mind off her shitty life. It seemed like the could make nothing but mistakes these days.

"Hi Pam," Mr. Zimmer greeted her as soon as she popped in the door. "How are you? I hope you did well on that assignment. You're really on the bubble in your graphic design course and I'm worried about you're progress."

Pam sat down across from the middle-aged administrator. "I don't know," she said. About a great many things.

Mr. Zimmer adopted his serious face. "Pam, you need to get a good grade on this assignment or else you're failing this course."

Staring at her feet, her body permeated with hopelessness, she lied. "No. I can't do this. I... don't understand the software."

"That's really unfortunate," he said, disappointed. "I had high hopes for you, Pam. You have good natural ability but if you can't use the software properly then you'll have to retake the course. I'm sorry."

When she exited Zimmer's office, Alex was still there, waiting a little ways down the hall. With her first tears falling, she took the CD with her completed Adobe Acrobat assignment into both hands and snapped it in half, then threw the pieces into the garbage with Alex watching. When she turned and walked the other way, he didn't follow.

Part of her wished that he had.

"I can't believe this," she muttered to herself as she walked, dejectedly, down the steps outside the building, through the throng of happy people. She sighed and flipped open her phone.

"Jim," she said. "I fucked up..."

* * *

December. Scranton.

It has been a tough day on Pam. She's still very pissed off at Jim's brothers, but today, since it is Christmastime, everyone thought it would be a great idea to have a family get together. And one of his brothers, whom she wants to keep calling Jon even though his name is Tom, he... _he_... well, she's just going to have to murder him in his sleep the next time she has the opportunity. And Jim thinks it was funny. She's beginning to think that the ability to piss people off is a Halpert family trait. After all, Jim had tried to give her favorite Snoopy mug to Andy. _Andy_.

And, of course, he's always able to get to sleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, no matter how upset she is and how much she wants to talk and/or bitch about it. She watches him, sleeping like a baby. A big, overgrown, shaggy haired baby. Does he even begin to suspect... anything? Does he have any dreams or aspirations of his own? Whenever she asks, he always makes some stupid joke, usually involving Kevin for some unfathomable reason. She's beginning to think that he really doesn't. And that bothers her because that means that he can't understand. Has no hope.

"Jim, I cheated on you," she says to his hibernating carcass. "And I hate the house, and this life is killing me." He only continues to slumber there, snoring gently in the darkness.

What if - no, not 'what if' - there _was _more to life than what Jim and Scranton could provide, and she wasn't going to get to experience any of it. But dreams of running away with Alex and being awesome in New York and never going back to sucky Jim and lameass Scranton were nothing but the most sordid of fantasies.

Right?

* * *

**End Notes:** Mansion, here's where you're supposed to squee.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author Notes:** So this is it. The final installment of my story about the love that dare not speak its name. If you don't want fangirls complaining about how they think it didn't happen, that is.

Two things before I go: 1) Have you seen Hilary Swank's body? Totally hot. 2) That thing Michael said when leaving the motel? "We're off like a herd of turtles"? Yeah, my dad says that. All. The. Time. The rest of that goes: "A herd of turtles?" "Of course I heard of turtles," said like an old country gentleman/foghorn leghorn. Even at its best, it's not even approximating funny.

* * *

November 13. Scranton.

The drive had been on autopilot, with a simple mantra repeated over and over and over again inside her head. Must return to Jim... Must return to Jim... Must return to Jim... Divine orders or her heart's longing desire; she didn't care which. Just the mantra as she forced her little blue Yaris faster and faster down the highway toward the office and him and home and the life that she wanted for herself (punctuated occasionally by a verbal "what the fuck am I doing?" and an ever tighter gripping of the steering wheel).

And with her heart pounding, she pulled into the parking lot, into her normal spot, and waited.

The day drew to a close. One by one, her coworkers exited the building, each giving her a look of surprise or shock followed by one of disappointment or sympathy. Some wanted to talk to her, others didn't, but both received the same answers from her.

She waited in silence, leaning against the trunk of his car, until Jim stepped through the lobby doors and into the fading sunlight. When he finally looked up and saw her, he too showed the surprise, but instead of disappointment or sympathy, all that was there was love, and she smiled.

But she felt a bit of a grimace appear upon her face, too. "I'm coming back the wrong way," she told him, standing to try to meet his height. "It's not because of you."

* * *

January. Scranton.

With Jim away at one of his pick-up basketball games, and nothing good on tv, Pam is left alone in the house with her thoughts and the surviving half of the scary clown (which had managed to defeat her - apparently it's a load-bearing clown). It's not a place where she wants to be. It gives her far too much time to wonder.

So she wonders. She wonders about the consequences of decisions she didn't make. She wonders about people who aren't here right now but that she wishes were. She wonders about her parents and her family. She wonders about giving up and growing up and growing apart and growing old and getting old and dying. She wonders about the road not taken. Robert Frost would be unimpressed.

She hasn't been falling out of love with Jim, annoyed with him over years of neglect and being taken for granted, hasn't had the time to analyze everything about him, all his annoying habits... she isn't a fool. She knows he isn't perfect. And she loves him, fully, foibles and all. And she would never for anything give him up because she loves him.

Exactly the way she loved Roy, long ago.

Back then she had not taken the time to think for herself, or to think period, but this time she is thinking. This time Pam pores over every tiny detail, scrutinizes every littlest event, reaches back to everything that she has ever learned, and explores the deepest crevasses of her soul. Ignorance is bliss.

Punching in a number on her phone that saw frequent use over the summer and fall but that she hasn't used in months, she doesn't wait a moment before she blurts, "You were right."

She shouldn't be surprised that his answer is a groggy and confused, "_What?_"

"Ummm... hi?" is her second attempt at making coherent conversation.

There is a pause from the other end of the line. "_Pam Beesley?_"

"You know, they have these phones that show you who's calling now. In fact, I'm pretty sure you're using one right now."

He chuckles. "_Well, holy crap, you're right... You know, I... I never thought I'd hear from you again._"

"Yeah, I'm, uh, sorry about what went down back there. I think that might be the worst thing I've ever done." She has a list. The race for the podium is pretty tight. "You have no idea how many times I almost dialed your number when I thought the coast was clear. Because it's looked up for so long at me and said, 'call me, please,' like every day."

"_So am I your dirty little secret?_" Alex singsongs, and just like that he is teasing her again, like nothing big and tragic had ever happened between them. She feels the corners of her mouth rising involuntarily.

"Oh, no, no. Not at all. Okay, yes. Listen, I wanted to talk to you, seriously. I've had this problem all my life where I sort of don't talk about things that I should be talking about and everyone suffers because of a lack of any meaningful communication and then there's fighting and vengeance and all sorts of horrible things and I don't want to do that anymore. It's my New Year's resolution."

"_Mine was to learn how to do my own oil changes._"

"You don't even have your own car. Shut up. I have to start talking about this before I chicken out."

"_Alright,_" he says, his tone quieting down immediately. "_When you're ready._"

"Thanks," she replies, taking a deep breath in preparation. She can do this. She can talk about things like a normal person. A normal person who has to explain why she acted like a mentally retarded five year old, that is. "What you said before. You were right. I was scared," she admits. "I'm not strong. I'm not a risk taker. That... I've known that for a while, but the way I acted... I've been driving myself to distraction trying to figure this out."

Alex chuckles. "_Yeah, I've been wondering about that myself._"

"That was some hardcore self destruction, wasn't it?" she agrees. "There I was, having more fun than I've ever had in my entire life and training for a career that I really wanted. And then I go and blow it all to smithereens just because I slept with you? Hardly seems like a proportionate response, does it?"

"_You're telling me. I mean, I know I'm no Casanova, but really..._"

"Quiet, you. Do you want to hear the explanation or not?"

"_Sorry. Go on._"

"So... on to the self destruction..." It would help if she actually knew how to articulate what she wants to say. Which is what you get when you don't talk much in real life. "I've... never known how to get what I want?" she sort of states, timidly. "And so I never did. And somewhere along the line I crossed over from accepting my mundane, sucky life, to actually being comfortable with it. Too comfortable to risk abandoning it to go after my dreams. I know that doesn't make any sense. I'm sorry if the English language hates me."

"_I've always been on better terms with Hindi. We go camping every Fourth of July._"

"Doofus," she sighs, shaking her head. "I could have done the art thing many times in the past, but I didn't. I always thought it was my ex-fiancé holding me back from pursuing art, and I resented him for it, but now I realize that it was just me. I was the one who was holding me back."

"_I'm sure you're being too hard on yourse - Wait, you mean you've been engaged before Jim? You're quite the popular young lady._"

"Don't I know it. I was also felt up by my office's HR rep and hit on by a Ben Franklin impersonator."

"_Uh.... huh..._"

"..."

"_..._"

There is nothing you can say after a revelation like that. At least nothing related. Unless you were also hit on by a Thomas Jefferson impersonator. "You know how school isn't something on its own? How it's a stepping stone, a way of prepping yourself for something real?" Alex murmurs in agreement. "Well, to me, it was something. To be doing something other than being the receptionist. But I'm too scared to stop being the receptionist. I was always going to go back to Jim and Scranton and working at a paper company. It feels kind of empty now," she admits. It felt kind of empty at the time. It's worse now.

"_Then why did you do it?_"

"...Which 'it'?"

Alex pauses, and she thinks that he's unsure, too. "_Either. Both,_" he finally decides.

"They're actually the same answer," she remarks after some thought. "You have no idea how much I want that life you guys were offering. I dreamt about it. Thought of ideas I could use. But I always knew I was going to go back to Scranton. I had a life there. A fiancé. Commitments. So my dreams stayed as just that: dreams. And I was okay with that. Jim was supportive of my art, but I knew he didn't want to uproot his life, even if it was for me. But we loved each other and we did have plans for the future and I was happy. But then it's this summer and I never got to see him and his brothers suck and he's trying to give away my Snoopy mug and we're not connecting and you were there being all sweet and he wasn't and I'm not as reserved as I used to be."

"_Pam, I really appreciate you calling and trying to make things right but please... make sure you breathe during your exposition._"

"Hey, I'm breathing. I sneak them in on alternating vowels," she jokes, after pausing to catch her breath, but this is a serious conversation. "But then we had sex and I felt horrible because I'm in a committed relationship, but I still wanted to. And I was already conflicted about this whole thing, the possibility of maybe having to drag Jim kicking and screaming away from Scranton if I was going to make this whole art thing work. I... just wasn't going to do that to him, too. So, as tempting as the career in New York was, I wasn't going to take it. As much as I wanted to. You can imagine how pissed off I was about that."

"_And then I came in with that speech I rehearsed and made it worse._"

"Yeah. You really know how to suck. No, but seriously. I'm a big scaredy cat. You were right... but I just couldn't handle it," she says, quietly, with more than just a little shame.

"_It doesn't sound like you were scared,_" Alex scoffs, missing the point. "Y_ou, it sounds to me like you were just being, trying, to do the right thing and that's commendable._"

She sighs, angrily. "Alex, I sabotaged myself just so I wouldn't have to make any tough decisions or difficult lifestyle changes." And closed a door that could have led her to achieving her dreams and to a sense of fulfillment and happiness that wouldn't so easily be opened again. When did her life become like a tv show? Oh, right. When it did. "And now I'm stuck here, art school drop out, feeling sorry for myself. And that's my story. As best as I can figure it out."

"_Pam, don't be so hard on yourself. I'm not mad at you for having different priorities. Making a career change and moving is a big step. A huge step. You don't - there's no shame in being frightened._"

"No, you don't understand," she practically cries. Why is he forcing her to spell it out? "I was scared to admit that I might not be happiest with Jim."

"_Oh,_" he says, after a long, long pause.

"So..."

"_So..._"

"So... Desperate to change the subject... I haven't talked to you in a while. What's up?"

"_Nothing much. Visited the fam for Christmas. Starting second semester. I'm taking that typography in new media course you recommended. It's excellent, by the way. Oh, and I nailed Dr. Cyphers._"

"Really? How is she?"

"_Dry._"

"Ew."

"_How are things with you now?_"

"Oh... I don't know... Existential conundra. My parents might be splitting up. They're arguing quite a bit and my dad warned us that he might be crashing on our couch soon. It sucks. That along with being a failed artist."

"_I know. My parents split just as I was finishing high school. I was - well, you're shocked because you never expect it. But it's funny. When I look back at it now, I wonder how they managed to stay together for so long. And, hey, being a failed artist worked out fine for Hitler. So you at least have that to aspire to._"

She giggles in spite of everything. "Thanks. Dwight will be happy about that."

"_Heh. Yeah... Pam?_"

"Yes, Alex?"

"_I love you._"

"I love you too."


End file.
